


Dust to Dust; Ashes to Ashes

by reona32



Series: A House; A Home [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, Halloween, M/M, Spooky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-04 20:35:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21203714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reona32/pseuds/reona32
Summary: The renovations of the old farm house stir up more than dust and dirt.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween

Illya reached up and yanked on the timeworn cord. He flinched as it snapped and the broken end flicked at his face. A couple people snorted behind him and Illya turned a frosty blue eyed glare on the crew gathered with him in the second floor hallway. They all suddenly found the walls and floor of the old house supremely interesting, avoiding meeting his eyes. “Joe, go get a ladder, please,” the Russian ordered. One of the guys gave a sloppy salute and trotted down the stairs and out the front door.

Illya looked back up at the ceiling and scowled at the entrance to the attic that was defying him. They had gotten a quick look at the attic when they had covered the hole in the roof with plastic sheeting. The workers said it was full of junk. Illya was not looking forward to cleaning it out but it had to be done. The space would house some security equipment and also act as storage once done. They were sure repairs would be needed due to water damage and just the general age of the house. Napoleon had suggested taking some space from the forth bedroom to create a proper staircase. Illya agreed, not enthusiastic about clambering up narrow folding steps every time he wanted into the attic space.

A ladder was brought and one of the construction workers skipped up it before Illya could. Much yanking and pulling was required but eventually the attic steps came loose, swinging down from the ceiling. The steps screeched along the rusty metal track as they extended and hit the floor with a bang. Dust rained down in a powdery shower. “What the hell was that?” yelled Napoleon, appearing at the bottom of the stairs on the first floor and looking up. “Everyone ok?”

Illya waved dust out of his face. “Just the attic steps, Napoleon. We’re fine.”

Curious, Napoleon headed up the stairs. The attic access was a black maw in the ceiling. “Do we know how bad the damage from the hole in the roof is?” he asked, peering up into the darkness.

“We’re about to,” answered Joe, sticking his head past the edge. “We’re going to need lights, though.” Construction lights were fetched, their bright orange cords snaking up the stairs from the front door. The group headed into the attic, testing the old steps to make sure they’d endure their weight.

“Careful,” cautioned Illya quietly to his partner. Napoleon hummed, walking up behind the blond. The attic was one large room, its floors bare and the overhead rafters covered in grime and old spider webs. Shapes hunched in the gloom. Illya hung one of the construction lights he was holding up on a protruding nail. The shadows receded; revealing the shapes to be discarded furniture, trunks, and other debris. A spinning wheel, spokes cracked, threw crazy shadows across the far wall. Broken oil lanterns had scattered shards of glass that crunched under foot. Fancy round hat boxes were slowly collapsing into themselves, ruined by damp and bugs. A baby carriage, black canopy ripped, was shoved next to a wooden cradle slowly being eaten by mold and decay.

A man yelped, suddenly dancing around. Everyone turned toward him, a couple guns being drawn. A mouse darted across the floor from between some boxes. Another man rolled his eyes. “Really, Logan?”

“I wasn’t expecting anything to jump out at me, Tom!” Most chuckled, tucking away their weapons.

“There are bats too,” said a stocky man, running a flashlight around the rafters near the hole in the ceiling. Squeaking and agitated fluttering came from the dark corners. “Probably raccoons; squirrels maybe.” A pile of broken chairs were stacked haphazardly near some boarded up windows. A square table had stacks of mildewed books on top of it, leaning precariously.

“We will get the pest guys to deal with it,” said Joe, the construction site’s foremen. “They’re already working on the termites.” He’d opened a trunk and was poking at the brittle paper within.

Illya picked his way through the mounds of stuff. Some of it was stored in trunks and boxes while other items were just tossed into piles. A broken rocking horse grinned next to a trunk with brass corners. Illya lifted the lid on the trunk and the smell of damp assaulted his nose. Two neatly folded quilts lay on top of old bed linens. A moth flew out. He lifted his head and looked around the crowded attic. It was as if several families had abandoned their lives up there, forgotten and rotting. It made him a little sad. “There is so much. What will we do with it all?” Illya jerked a little as a person loomed out of the shadows but then recognized it as a tattered dress form.

“Trash?” suggested a man with light brown hair. He nudged a stack of rotting newspapers with his boot. A couch had collapsed in on itself in the back of the attic.

“Seems a waste,” said Joe. “Not everything is garbage.” He had unearthed a porcelain doll, the toy’s dress discolored by dirt but face intact.

Napoleon was wandering around, poking at this and that. A large rectangular shape covered in an old sheet stood against the wall, thankfully away from the hole in the roof. Curious, Napoleon grabbed a corner and pulled. The wardrobe it revealed was made of dark wood, although badly in need of oil, and was decorated with delicate carved swirls. Napoleon smiled, pleased with his discovery. “No, not everything is garbage,” he agreed.

It took a week to go through everything. They contacted a local heritage museum, who sent out an older woman with steel gray hair to help catalog the items. Joan Templeton set to work with a surprising diligence and energy, picking through the pieces carefully. Some things were not salvageable, ruined by time and water. The woman was very disappointed when a set of diaries they found were too overtaken with mildew and rot to be legible. “Such a shame,” she muttered, leafing through the pages gently. “We don’t have a lot from the Sloan family in the archive.” Joan’s voice was muffle by the paper mask she was wearing to fight off the dust but Illya heard all the same.

“The Sloan family?” Illya asked. He had found a box of old hand tools and was going through it with interest.

“According to the town ledger, the Sloan family owned 15 acres of farm land north of Oak Wood. Edgar Sloan had this house built and moved his family from Boston to the farm in 1889. Such a sad story, really. They should have stayed in Boston.”

Illya had been only half listening but turned to look at her. “Sad story? What happened?”

Joan’s eyes crinkled above the dust mask. “The Sloan family had nothing but bad luck in this house. Illness and accidents plagued them. The grandson of Edgar Sloan was the last of the family to own this house and he hung himself in a barn after his wife died in childbirth, the infant stillborn.”

“Well, that’s pleasant,” said Napoleon, coming up the steps. There was dust in his salt and pepper hair.

“Old towns have a lot of stories,” Joan said. “Not always pleasant.” She replaced the diary and stood, brushing off her hands. “I want to thank you again for allowing the preservation society first crack at these items, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon waved a dismissive hand. “You’re welcome to anything you or your colleagues wish, Mrs. Templeton. I’m just glad it’s not all ending up in a dumpster.”

“You and me both.”

Napoleon smiled, nodding, and turned to his partner. “Illya, the electrician wants to speak with you.”

Illya cocked an eyebrow, setting down an old wood plane. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, but from the amount of cursing, I don’t think it’s anything good.” Illya sighed but thumped his way down the attic steps obediently.

Joan chuckled, turning her attention back to the items she was going through. “I think it’s great that you are fixing up this old house, Mr. Solo. Some people in town were saying we should tear the building down and sell off the land.” She sounded less than happy about that.

“I am too,” replied Napoleon. “It’s going to be lovely when all the renovations are done.” He turned and headed back down the steps. Movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him and Napoleon looked across the attic floor with a frown. All he could see were a couple of boxes where Joan had carefully placed some old wooden toys to be transported to the heritage museum and an old desk stained almost black. He shook his head and continued down the steps. Looks like the pest company still hadn’t caught all the mice.


	2. 2

There was no water or electricity working in the house, so they had set up a table outside on the front lawn with a big jug of ice water and an urn of coffee. Snacks were usually on offer as well. Napoleon filled a Styrofoam cup full of coffee and selected a cookie wrapped in plastic before heading into the house. A couple of men were in the living room, replacing structure damaged by termites. The wall between the living room and the office had been demolished to the bare two-by-four supports. New electrical wiring was being run throughout the house.

Napoleon walked into the kitchen and went to the window that would be above the sink, as soon as they found one they both liked. On the edge of the overgrown garden stood an old twisted oak tree, more dead than alive. A crew was cutting it down right then. Napoleon hadn’t wanted to but had bowed to Illya’s argument that it was unsafe. Every brisk wind sent branches falling to the ground and the Russian was worried one good storm would lay the whole tree flat. Still, sadness filled Napoleon’s chest as he watched the upper limbs being cut and lowered to the ground. It seemed such a shame to lose it. His sipped his coffee.

A sigh of such melancholy as to break his heart sounded in Napoleon’s ear. The brunet could feel the breath brush against his skin. He yelped in surprise, spinning around and sloshing coffee on his fingers. Goosebumps rose on Napoleon’s arms as he found himself alone in the kitchen. He turned in a quick circle but he was indeed alone and certain he would have heard someone approach him from behind.

The bright construction lights in the living room snapped off. Cries of protest sounded. “Not again,” someone complained.

“Who keeps shutting off the generator, damnit?” yelled Joe from upstairs. The man thumped down the stairs and out the front door. A minute later, the lights came back on and a drill started up on the second floor.

Napoleon chewed his lip, setting his half-finished coffee and untouched cookie on the piece of plywood they were using as a work table. The large farm table that had dominated the kitchen had been removed to be refinished. Unsettled, he grabbed a pair of work gloves and headed out the back door. Perhaps he’d poke around one of the sheds and see what goodies he could find in there. At this point, they had a growing pile of old horseshoes they had unearthed, some large farm tools, like a rusted plow head, and more rotted debris from farm life than Napoleon wanted to think about in the old sheds.

The preservation society had laid claim to some of the large farm tools and Joan had plans to come back with more people to haul the pieces they wanted away. Back in the wooded area was the collapsed remains of a large barn. They had a couple offers to haul it away, mostly people wanting to use the reclaimed wood. Napoleon found the whole area around the collapsed barn rather eerie and disquieting. The air there felt different to the brunet. He avoided it and left the matter to Illya.

Shaking his head at himself, Napoleon ducked into a gloomy shed and picked a corner to start rummaging in, careful of snakes and spiders. He found several empty glass jars, which he brought out and lined up neatly on the patio. They would find a purpose for them or pass them on to someone else. In a couple of minutes, Napoleon had several piles on the patio. There were more horseshoes, of course, some old tools that looked too rusted to be of use but you never knew, and a bigger pile of trash, broken boxes and baskets mostly, that would be hauled to the dumpster by someone younger than Napoleon.

The brunet had just uncovered a couple stacks of old square tile and was seeing if any of it could be salvaged, when someone called his name from outside, “Napoleon?”

“Just a second,” Napoleon called back, picking up a stack of tile carefully and walking out of the shed. “What is it?” he asked, setting the tile down. He looked around and frowned. There was nobody on the patio.

“Napoleon!” the voice called again, sounding more urgent.

Napoleon huffed in annoyance and took a few steps toward the windows of the house where he thought the voice was calling from. He could see someone with long hair moving about the office, probably one of the artisans restoring the tile around the fireplace. “What is it?” he asked again. There was a loud snap behind him, followed by a screech. The brunet jumped and turned just in time to see the shed he been mucking about in slant forward and collapse onto the patio. He danced back as dust flew into the air, coughing and waving his hand about, but the wreckage missed him.

“Napoleon!” That voice Napoleon recognized and he turned toward Illya as the blond rushed up to him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Napoleon coughed. “I wasn’t hit.”

Hines came running out the back door. “You alright, sir?” People were surrounding the collapsed shed, making a lot of noise.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.” He glanced down where the glass jars he’d found had been smashed by the falling shed and then back at the house. There were a couple construction workers crowding the windows of the office to peer out curiously but nobody with long hair.

Illya started making a fuss about making sure the remaining sheds were stable and getting the mess from the fallen shed cleared away. He put a hand on Napoleon’s arm to gain his attention. “Do you want to go inside and relax for a little while?” he asked, concern darkening his blue eyes.

“Actually, I’d like to head into town and get lunch. Want to come with me?” Illya hesitated with his answer, glancing back at the big oak tree the arborist crew was taking down. Even if the blond wasn’t actively helping, he was loath to leave them unsupervised. “Please, Illya?” Napoleon found himself eager to be away from the house for a while.

Illya smiled, relenting. “Yes, let us get lunch together.”


	3. 3

Napoleon was measuring wall space in what would be the master bedroom. He’d convinced Illya not to build closets in the bedrooms and now the brunet was trying to mentally envision where the furniture would go in the room. They would need at least two dressers and the big wardrobe he had uncovered in the attic was being refinished and would have pride of place in the master bedroom. Right now, the room was bare. The wallpaper had been stripped, leaving just plain plaster, and the floor had been sanded but not yet stained and sealed with polyurethane.

Napoleon rolled up the tape measure and noted the numbers on his clipboard, a rough drawing of the room sketched out on the paper. The big wardrobe would fit nicely between the windows on the outside wall, he’d discovered. Napoleon jumped as shouting came from down the hallway, “Just give it back, you ass!”

“I didn’t touch it! How many times must I tell you I didn’t touch it!”

“Then where the hell is it?”

Napoleon hurried into the hallway, putting his clipboard on a stray tool chest. He found the source of the noise in one of the smaller front bedrooms. Two men wearing tan work overalls were shouting in each other’s face, looking close to a physical altercation. “What is going on here!” shouted Napoleon, scowling. This had been happening too often lately. The two men jerked away from each other. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Napoleon glanced over to see Hines come up, one of the Uncle agents that had been assisting in the renovation.

“This jerk keeps moving my drill!” snapped one of the workers, a thin man with a short dark beard.

“I haven’t touched your drill, not even once!” protested the other. He was dark skinned with close cropped hair. Both of them looked about to burst with anger.

Napoleon took a step back and pointed down. “You mean the drill sitting right here?” The drill, power cord wrapped neatly around the handle, was sitting just to the side of the door in the hallway.

The two men looked down at it. The thin man pointed sharply at the dark skinned man. “You moved it there!” he shouted.

“For fuck’s sake! I did not!”

Napoleon sighed. Hines cleared his throat, “I’ll take care of this, sir.” Napoleon nodded, annoyed with the arguing pair, and walked away. The uncle agent stepped into the room, keeping his voice quiet but hard as he spoke to the men.

Rolling his eyes, Napoleon went back to the tool chest for his clipboard only to find it gone. He looked on the floor around it, figuring the clipboard had fallen off the tool chest. He caught it out of the corner of his eye sitting just inside the door to the master bedroom. Napoleon eyed the distance between the tool chest to where the clipboard rested upside-down on the floor, confused. Maybe it had slid? Shaking his head, he picked it up and turned it over. Along the bottom, under the sketch of the room dimensions, was a series of faint pencil marks that Napoleon was sure had not been there before. He looked for the pencil but it was gone as well. He patted his pockets, thinking he’d put the pencil there without realizing it, but they were empty.

Snorting at himself, Napoleon left the master bedroom and walked downstairs. He turned at the bottom to head into the kitchen when something fell in front of his face, making him start. It clattered to the floor and Napoleon frowned as his missing pencil rolled to rest against his shoe. He looked up at the landing of the stairs above him but Hines and the two workers were still in the other bedroom. Napoleon looked back down at the pencil. “Napoleon?” The brunet turned to see Illy coming in the front door, a hardware store bag in his hand. “Is something wrong? You have a peculiar look on your face.”

Napoleon shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “No, Illya. Just having a senior moment.” He picked up the pencil.

Illya cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve never had a senior moment in your life. What happened?” Raised voices on the second floor saved Napoleon from having to come up with an answer. “What is that about?” asked Illya.

“Two of the construction workers are having a tiff. Hines is taking care of it.”

Illya snorted as the pair walked into the kitchen. “It seems to be catching today. David was having a fit this morning because everybody kept moving his ladder.” He set the hardware bag on top of the piece of plywood supported by two sawhorses they were using as a worktable.

Napoleon pulled a soda from the cooler they were using until they could get a fridge in. “Did Joan say she was going to be by this afternoon?” he asked. He popped off the cap on the soda and took a drink before holding it out to Illya.

“Yes, around three,” Illya replied before taking the soda and drinking as well.

“I hope she gets the rest of the stuff out of the attic today. Joe was wanting to start up there tomorrow and cut the hole for the new stairs,” Napoleon said, going over to the window and looking out into the back yard.

“Joan said they should. She’s bringing a couple guys from the heritage group to help carry the last of it out,” replied Illya. He took another gulp of soda and was looking over some papers left on the plywood table, notes on what needed to be done and drawings of the house structure. “Harry is supposed to have the ceiling tin done on Monday,” he said idly. He looked up as his partner didn’t respond. “Napoleon?”

The brunet was still looking out the window into the back yard. “Who’s that out in the garden?” Napoleon suddenly asked. “I don’t recognize him.” A stocky man in a loose shirt and dark pants walked past the tangle of weeds and vines hanging off a rotting arbor.

“Where?” Illya demanded sternly. He stepped up next to Napoleon.

Napoleon pointed. “He just went around the other side of the shed there.”

Illya didn’t see anyone but spun toward the back door. “Away from the window,” he ordered. “Hines! Cooke!” he shouted as he hurried outside. Napoleon stepped back from the window with a frown. Hines came pounding down the stairs and another man, sandy haired with glasses, ran in from the living room. Napoleon pointed them outside and the pair of Uncle agents headed after Illya, pulling their guns.

They searched the whole yard but found no one. Illya made a call and had a team of agents out searching the wooded area around the house. No sign of an intruder was found. It left Illya in a bad mood, glowering at everything and everyone. Hines went around to everyone in the house and checked their ID’s, making sure they were authorized to work there and were also scheduled to be at the house that day. Any discrepancies could mean a devious agenda but everything checked out.

Joan Templeton and two young men arrived that afternoon and Napoleon meet them on the driveway, wanting to spare them Illya’s current sour temper. “Joan! A pleasure to see you again,” greeted the brunet. Agent Cooke appeared to check the ID’s of the new arrivals.

Joan looked curious but knew just enough about them to not question it. “This is my great-nephew, James Schurwan, and Scott Woods, a volunteer at the museum. The boys were kind enough to come help me today,” Joan introduced. Both boys looked to be in their late teens, with the lanky limbs of youth. A blue truck pulling a flatbed was parked in front of the house.

“Gentlemen, nice to meet you,” said Napoleon, shaking their hands. He gestured the group into the house and up the stairs. In the living room they walked past, three men were hoisting sheets of drywall onto the far wall, the one that had to be completely redone due to termite damage.

“Man, I didn’t think anybody would want to fix up the old Fox Lane place,” James said as they came to the attic steps on the second floor.

Scott nodded. “I was sure the town council was gonna tear it down last year, especially with the stories going around about it.”

“Oh, not those old tales again. I’m so sick of hearing it,” complained Joan.

“What tales?” asked Napoleon as they all entered the attic. The new stairs for the attic were not yet complete, so they were still using the pull down ladder steps.

James and Scott laughed as Joan huffed with a roll of her eyes. “The ghost stories, of course!” exclaimed Scott, sounding gleeful.

“Utter nonsense, if you ask me!” Joan protested.

“Oh, come on, Aunt Joan. People have been saying that the Fox Lane house was haunted since before you were born,” said James. “There’s got to be something to it.”

“Pish. Don’t you listen to them, Napoleon. There is no such thing as ghosts.”

Napoleon smiled benignly. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Joan. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Now,” he gestured to the last few trunks and items still lurking in the attic, “shall we get these down to your vehicle?”


	4. 4

When this was over, Napoleon swore he’d never renovate another building as long as he lived. If he had to field another spat over missing tools or materials, he’d resort to sleep darts. Just an hour ago, Joe had found a missing hammer in the kitchen and the missing box of nails in the dining room. They had laid out the tin ceiling tiles on the floor of the living room to check positioning before they were placed on the ceiling of the foyer but every time they looked away the tiles were disturbed and found out of place. They were painting the second floor and somebody had stepped in the paint, tracking footprints all down the hallway. Everybody swore it was not them; even picking up their feet to show the clean soles of their shoes. Last night, the crew had been finishing up and getting ready to leave when they all heard a loud yell from the attic. They had searched but hadn’t found anything amiss. The construction crew, even the Uncle agents, were beginning to… talk.

The brunet walked upstairs, eyes glancing down at the floor where the paint had been. It had since been cleaned up. Four doors now stood on the opposite side of the hallway; the master bedroom, the bathroom, the back spare bedroom, and, at the very end, the new stairs up to the attic. The attic access in the ceiling had been closed off. Napoleon smiled a little; you couldn’t tell that the door to the attic was new. The carpenters had done a wonderful job matching the other doors and they had even been lucky enough to find an old lead crystal doorknob to match the others in the house, the product of much rummaging at flea markets and antique stores.

Napoleon wandered down the hallway and into the master bedroom. Entering, he gave a sudden shiver as a cold breeze blew over him. He stepped quickly to the side and the air temperature returned to normal. He rubbed at his arms as he paced the bedroom, trying to not let his mind drift into silly thoughts; silliness that was becoming harder to avoid. A glance out the window showed that the landscaper had pulled his truck full of mulch and plants around the house to the back patio. Napoleon headed downstairs. “Nigel,” he called as he went out the back door, raising a hand to wave at the swarthy Latino man.

“Napoleon, amigo, how goes it?”

“It goes just fine,” Napoleon replied, shaking the other man’s hand.

Nigel slapped the side of the truck. “Got everything you ordered in. A second truck is coming with more dirt too. You want to start laying thing out?” A slightly younger man yanked open the back of the truck and began to unload plants onto the patio.

“Let’s do that,” agreed Napoleon, picking up a pair of gloves and pulling them on. “I want to get as much in the ground as we can before it gets dark.” The truck with the dirt arrived not too long after and Napoleon and Nigel’s team spend the afternoon filling in empty patches of the garden. Napoleon had tried to save as much of the existing garden as he could but some plants had been completely dead and others entwined with poison ivy and brambles and it was best to just remove those sections completely. They had used the burn pile to roast hotdogs for lunch that day.

Illya wandered over, covered in a fine layer of sawdust and arguing that the roses were too close to the walking path and would be a hazard. Then he talked Napoleon into moving the tall ornamental grasses to a lower part of the garden so they wouldn’t provide cover for someone trying to sneak up to the house. A ten minute discussion about where the day lilies should go followed. It was finally decided they would go by the pond when Illya said they would look pretty there. Then the blond demanded Napoleon eat something and rest before he ended up face first in the dirt. “You’re not as young as you used to be,” said Illya as he herded Napoleon into the kitchen.

“Hypocrite,” muttered the brunet under his breath.

They ended up on the patio in uncomfortable plastic chairs, snacking on sandwiches and weak tea. Illya was very vocal about his displeasure with the weak tea. Napoleon chuckled; pleased with the progress on the garden, the company, and, yes, even the weak tea. Soon, the yard would be done and the last couple of tasks on the house finished and they could move in. Napoleon tipped his head back, basking in the warm sunlight. His brown eyes drifted over the house, marveling at the change, when movement in the master bedroom windows caught his attention.

A woman with long blonde hair was pacing from one end of the bedroom to the other. Napoleon stared. He knew there were no women with long blonde hair on the site. It was possible his sister and niece where visiting but both ladies had dark hair, just like Napoleon. There were a couple women around, one of which a young lady with short brown hair that worked with the landscaper team. The woman in the house wore a faded white blouse, from what he could see, and appeared anxious. He tried to see the woman’s face but the fall of her hair obscured it.

Something touched his arm and Napoleon jumped. “Napoleon, did you hear me?” asked Joe, frowning. “I said the kitchen tile will be delivered tomorrow.”

Napoleon cleaned his throat, ignoring the look Illya was giving him. “That’s good, Joe. We can get the kitchen finished.” The chatter started up again and Napoleon looked back up at the house, but the master bedroom windows were empty.


End file.
